I might stumble on the flagstone quay
and slip the black embankment to the Seine,
or clutch my coat and amble on my way
envisioning your face. I’d count to ten,
inhale the rain and press my face on yours,
disolving in your scarf, your red embrace.
In either case, I’m lost. The night detours
of Paris take the ghost and leave no trace
but visions and a vignette cast in time–
a kir royale, rouge lipstick on the glass,
a street in Montparnasse, a petit crime
of conscience, call it love and let it pass
for city lights reflected on a wave,
for worms that twist like cables in the grave.